A Man Like Him
by JamesLuver
Summary: She'd never thought that she would meet a man like him. But John Bates is an enigma at the best of times, and Anna Smith simply can't work out whether the man that she's fallen in love with has given his heart in return.
**A/N:** Written for the Banna April challenge over on Tumblr.

Based on the following OTP Prompts post: _Imagine person A having a crush on person B, but person B is a very nice and kind person to everyone, so every time person B says something really nice to person A, person A can't tell if person B is just being themselves or if it means something more._

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own _Downton Abbey_.

* * *

 _A Man Like Him_

 _August 1912_

Several months have passed since Mr. Bates first stepped foot inside Downton's back door, and during that time, Anna has found herself growing closer and closer to the man. She likes to think that she gets on well with most people, and can at least pass the civil time of day with the people she likes less, but there is something about Mr. Bates that is a complete and utter breath of fresh air. If she was asked about it, she couldn't possibly put her finger on it. All she knows is that she is inexplicably drawn to him. Perhaps it runs deeper than simple admiration. Perhaps, instinctively, she knows that they are made of the same mettle. After all, she had noticed his hard work ethic immediately, his desire to push himself to do his best no matter the detriment to himself. She likes that he is quiet and unassuming, that he doesn't pry for gossip or badmouth anyone else behind their backs. She enjoys the too-rare twinkle of mischief in his countenance, the ever-present sincerity in every word that he speaks.

With every conversation that they share, she finds herself drawn more and more to him, like a moth to a flame. There's simply something about him.

It comes to her later, a bolt out of the blue.

She…she _fancies_ him.

The notion is a strange one, both terrifying and exhilarating. She has never had a real fancy of anyone before, her heart locked in a prison cell thanks to her stepfather. But, somehow, it makes her feel free. Human for the first time in years. On so many occasions she has sat silently by, listening to the other young girls giggling over the newest handsome footman, wishing that she could be like them, that she could feel _something_.

And these feelings hit her out of nowhere, shaking her to the core. Whenever she sees him, her stomach flips, her heart flutters in her chest. She finds herself taking in details of his persona like she would scrutinise a room for any lingering molecule of dust. The kaleidoscope of colours that explode in his eyes in the different lights, from tawny gold to deep hazel. The scent of his aftershave, dabbed on for special occasions—church on a Sunday being the primary event—or else the strong scent of soap. Salty sweat at the end of a long day. The way that his long fingers turn the pages on his ever-present book. Her breath catches and the heat rises in her face whenever she idly finds herself wondering what it would feel like to touch those fingers for herself.

It's dangerous territory. Uncharted. Something has bloomed within her chest. She is not unrealistic, even with the dizziness that comes with a first crush. She's seen housemaids court young men from the village, but never has one married another servant in the house. Mrs. Hughes and Mr. Carson rule with an iron rod. And, of course, there is also the slightly more problematic issue of whether her feelings are even returned.

"You look a thousand miles away."

His voice now interrupts her thoughts, and she starts, pricking herself with the needle that she's using to sew the hemline on one of Lady Edith's dresses. She lets out an inadvertent hiss, dropping it to the table. A droplet of blood flowers. She brings her finger to her mouth.

Mr. Bates' eyes widen in horror, and he limps towards the table. "Oh, God! Are you all right, Anna? I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

"It's fine," she reassures him, but the tortured look on his face doesn't abate. She tries a smile. "I've had worse than this in the past." Her stepfather rises up like the devil in front of her eyes, and she has to blink to make the image dissipate, until only Mr. Bates is standing there, looking so contrite that it almost breaks her heart.

"Where does Mrs. Hughes keep the first aid box?" he asks. "You should get it bandaged."

"It'll stop bleeding in a minute or two," she argues. "It's not worth the effort."

Mr. Bates has already turned away. "She must keep it in her office. I'll see if she's in there and ask if I can borrow it."

Anna wants to call after him, but she finds her voice won't co-operate. It's been a long time since she had last let someone fuss over her. It's a strange sensation, but there's something heady about it too.

He returns less than a minute later, clutching the little box in his left hand. He places it on the table and pulls the chair out next to her.

"Give me your hand," he says.

"I can dress it myself," she protests. "I've done it plenty of times before."

"Nonsense," he said. "I'm responsible. Let me put this right."

The butterflies in her stomach begin a frenzied storm. He won't touch her unless she expresses permission. Swallowing, she gives him a tight nod.

She jumps when he touches her, static flying between them. He withdraws at once, and she giggles shyly, tentatively offering her hand once more. He takes it, holding it as if it is a delicate blossom. Anna finds that she can't lift her gaze, afraid of what she will—or won't—see in his eyes. Instead she focuses on his hands, on the thick, sturdy fingers that are caressing her, the strong backs. It is boggling that something that clearly has so much strength can be so gentle too.

Mesmerised, she watches the path of the small bud of cotton that he carefully wipes over the wound, the movements so light that they feel dream-like. She doesn't even realise that she's holding her breath until her vision crosses a little, and she forces herself to inhale slowly, lest she disturb this sacred moment. He warns her that he needs to dab a little antiseptic on it to prevent infection—more extravagant than he needs to be over such a trivial injury—and she manages to nod her consent. She still can't bring herself to look at him.

"It might sting a little," he says. His voice is rough around the edges. Masculine. The kind of tone she imagines he would use if they were truly alone somewhere. Like in a bedroom. In a bed. Heat snakes through her insides. Her toes curl within her shoes. She shouldn't be having thoughts like that.

"I'll be all right," she replies, and her voice comes out just as unsteady. Mr. Bates' head is bent, so she allows herself the luxury of scrunching her nose in self-contempt. She sounds like a silly schoolgirl floundering in her first ever exposure to love.

She's far beyond the age of a schoolgirl, but the rest is so very true.

Even so, she has kept her heart closely guarded for so many years. It is frightening to think that she has no control over it now.

She winces when Mr. Bates wipes the antiseptic bud over her finger. His head shoots up at once, his hand dropping hers as if it's scorched him.

"I hurt you," he says. Now his words fracture with self-loathing. He's as damaged as she is, and not just physically. Her heart melts a little more.

"You didn't," she promises him. "It was just unexpected, that's all. I know what to prepare for now. You can carry on, if you want. Or I can finish off myself. Really, you owe me nothing."

"I owe you a very great deal," he replies quietly. He does not look at her, but the intensity of his words makes her heart waltz in her chest. He says nothing more, finishing his work. With a delicate flourish, he tightens the bandage around her finger.

"There. All done," he announces. "How does it feel? Is it too tight? I can loosen it."

"It's fine," she reassures him, testing her fingers. She can still move them comfortably. "Thank you so much."

"You're very welcome. I hope it goes a little way to saying thank you to you."

She glances around. They are still very much alone. She furrows her brows. "Thank you? Why would you need to say thank you to me?"

Mr. Bates glances around too, evidently to verify the conclusion that she came to mere moments before. He lowers his voice so much that she has to strain her ears to catch his words.

"I have so many things that I need to thank you for."

His voice is low and furtive, but it's impossible to miss the tightly wound passion in his voice.

She fumbles for something to say, suddenly shy. "I don't need thanks for anything."

"You might not think you do. You're one of a kind in that way, Anna. You were kinder to me in the space of a few minutes than some have been to me in my whole life."

"Mr. Bates, you flatter me."

"I endeavour to speak the truth, not to flatter you with falsities, Anna."

The words only make her blush more. She isn't quite sure how else to make her tongue form words, isn't sure what else she should say. She knows she _must_ say something—sitting here like a halfwit is hardly constructive—but she flounders like a goldfish.

The sharp click of heels against the flagstones outside the servants' hall makes Mr. Bates jump back at once, his chair screeching against the floor. He stumbles and catches himself against the table, paling just slightly, like a thief caught in the act.

"I should go," he mutters. "I have some things to do for his lordship."

He doesn't wait for her reply, grabbing his cane from the back of the chair and limping out of the room. He passes Mrs. Hughes in the doorway, and offers her a tight nod in acknowledgement. She pauses to watch him go suspiciously, then turns back to Anna. She gasps when she takes in the sight.

"My, Anna, what _have_ you been doing?" Mrs. Hughes asks her.

"I cut my finger. It's only a scratch." Anna gestures to her mending, as if that will help to illustrate the point better. "I was just a bit clumsy, is all."

"It doesn't look like a scratch to me."

She won't mention Mr. Bates. To mention him would be to admit to how he'd helped. Might even bring unwanted attention from the butler and the housekeeper. "Honestly, I'm fine. More than fine."

She doesn't think that she's ever spoken a more truthful thing.

Mrs. Hughes eyes her doubtfully for a moment, then shakes her head. "Well, you'd better start clearing away. Daisy will be laying the table soon."

"Yes, Mrs. Hughes," she parrots, dutifully gathering her mending together. She wonders if the housekeeper can see the change on her face, can sense that frightening _something_ that is beginning to blossom and bloom within her like a flower in the spring after the harshest of winters.

Perhaps she doesn't have the courage to open her heart to anyone just yet. But she's sure that if Mr. Bates keeps talking to her the way he does, keeps _looking_ at her the way he does, she might give him the key sooner than she had ever anticipated.

* * *

 _September 1912_

As the weeks pass, Anna finds that her hopes, or fears, grow stronger and stronger. Mr. Bates is unlike any man she has ever met before. When they talk, his eyes don't stray from hers. They don't wander down her body, bored with the conversation, dreaming of what's beneath the layers of her clothing. He doesn't talk over her or scorn at her opinions. Instead, he turns his body towards her. He inclines his head so that he can listen more carefully. His eyes hold a look that suggests he would die if he didn't finish listening to her opinion.

He sees her as a person, as she had seen him as one when he'd first stepped foot inside Downton Abbey.

She hadn't realised that she could ever feel like this, as if her heart might burst from her chest at any given moment. _He sees her as a person._

And therein lies the problem.

Because Mr. Bates sees _everyone_ like a person. He does not have an unkind bone in his body. With the exception of Thomas, who he trades jibes with on a regular basis, and Miss O'Brien, whose mere face is enough to sour milk, he doesn't have a bad relationship with anyone. He's cordial, he's polite, he's eager to please and fit in with his surroundings.

That makes the confusion that swells within her even more prominent. Because now she's certain of her feelings for him, but how can she be sure of his for her?

Sometimes, she thinks that it's possible, that the feelings of friendship he harbours for her have deepened into something so much more. The way he looks at her sometimes nearly takes her breath away, gives her so much reason to believe.

And yet there is also reason to doubt. Because of Mr. Bates' natural temperament.

Because she's never been able to trust her own heart before.

* * *

A loud crash from the kitchen, followed by a shriek, grabs Anna's attention at once. She's sitting in the servants' hall nursing a cup of tea after a gruelling morning. Beside her, Mr. Bates glances up from the letter he is writing to his mother.

"What was that?" he says.

"It sounded like Mrs. Patmore to me," she replies. "I wonder what Daisy's gone and done this time."

"Perhaps we should go and see," he says. "There might be something that we can do."

Anna nods, placing her cup back in the saucer. Together, they file towards the other end of the corridor, where Mrs. Patmore's hysteria can still be heard.

Anna is surprised to find the cook completely alone. Usually the kitchen is a hive of activity, and Mrs. Patmore often snaps at those who dare enter her territory, a bulldog guarding what is rightfully hers. Now she looks more forlorn than a chihuahua.

Mr. Bates is the first to speak, his voice soft. "Mrs. Patmore, are you all right?"

She jumps, as if she hadn't realised that she had company. She really must have been in a world of her own, for Mr. Bates' cane hardly made their arrival a mystery. Anna is surprised to see that the little cook's eyes are red, her cheeks a bit splotchy from tears. Concern arrows through her at once.

"Mrs. Patmore!" she says, hurrying forward to take the older woman by the arm. "What's happened? Where are the others?"

Mrs. Patmore sniffs. "They're off doing different jobs. I had a few minutes to myself."

"But what's happened?" Anna presses.

It's Mr. Bates' smooth tone that answers, gently. "Did you drop the sugar, Mrs. Patmore?"

Anna turns towards the huge work station in the middle of the room, big enough to fit so many kitchen hands around in one go as they all work tirelessly to feed the family and their colleagues. The sugar pot has cracked open wide, sugar scattered all over the surface, and on the floor too. It looks like a crime scene.

"It was Daisy's fault!" Mrs. Patmore cries. "She left the sugar right on the edge of the table, and I must have caught it with my elbow."

Anna frowns—the sugar pot is big enough to see—but she knows that it's fruitless trying to argue with her when she's in one of her moods. She makes for a formidable opponent. She would probably give the Dowager Countess a run for her money if they were of the same social standing.

Mr. Bates places a reassuring hand on the cook's shoulder. "Why don't you sit down? Rest your feet a minute. You don't get many chances to. I can clean this up for you."

"Certainly not!" Mrs. Patmore protests at once. "It's not a valet's job to help in the kitchen!"

"You make it sound as if I've never been in a kitchen in my life," he returns, but his tone is kind. "I don't mind, truly. I always help my mother when I go and see her. I like to think I've picked up enough to clear away some spilled sugar."

Sniffing, Mrs. Patmore complies, lowering herself into the creaky rocking chair situated by the stove. Mr. Bates picks up a cloth and grips the end of the table. Anna realises in a flash what he's about to do. She rushes forward at once, grasps at his forearm.

"Let me," she says.

Mr. Bates looks down to where she's holding him, and she releases him at once, remembering herself, though it's impossible to keep the heat in her cheeks down. Even beneath the starched layers of his clothing, she'd felt his forearm. How powerful it was. How the muscles beneath her contracted. He clears his throat.

"I can manage," he says tightly. "It's only a bit of sugar."

"I know you can manage," she says. "But it'll go twice as quick if there are two of us to clean it up. There's more mess on the table. You tackle that."

He eyes her for a moment more and she grins, not giving him any more time to argue as she drops to her knees. Tutting, he goes to wipe the table clean. Mrs. Patmore's sniffles are the only sounds that break the monotone of their work. Soon, however, the table is spick and span, and Mr. Bates is busy at the sink, making a fresh batch of tea. Anna stands by awkwardly, watching. It's almost like getting an intimate glimpse into his personal life. He seems at home in a woman's domain. Has probably made his mother tea a thousand times before. Has perhaps even fended for himself in the past—she has no idea what his life was before he arrived at Downton.

He brings the tray over to Mrs. Patmore tentatively, evidently more cognizant of his weaknesses than ever before.

"Here," he says. "Drink this."

"Thank you," the cook says, subdued for the first time in a long while. She takes the cup and saucer in hands that tremble, and brings it silently to her lips.

"No harm done," Mr. Bates continues. "Enjoy the rest of your quiet time while you can. God knows you deserve it with the hard work you put in every day. Anna and I didn't see a thing, isn't that right, Anna?"

"Oh, yes, right," Anna says, shaking herself out of her stupor.

For the first time since they entered the kitchen, Mrs. Patmore manages a watery smile. "Thank you," she repeats.

"Not at all," he says in that humble manner he has.

Suddenly feeling like an intruder, Anna murmurs, "I've left some mending. I should get back to it."

Mr. Bates nods at her, but Mrs. Patmore barely seems to notice. She's staring at Mr. Bates as if it's the first time she's properly seen him. On the way out, Anna catches her words.

"You're a very kind man, Mr. Bates," she says.

"I wouldn't say that," he replies, immediately putting himself down. Anna has noticed that he does that a lot.

Returning to the servants' hall with her heart heavier than it ought to be, she wonders if it will be to her detriment that others are beginning to notice that he is a very kind man indeed.

* * *

 _October 1912_

Mr. Bates comes across her in the courtyard. Months have passed since the day that she'd realised that her feelings for him run deeper than friendship, and the weather is on the turn. He pauses for a moment.

"I'm sorry," he says. "Am I disturbing you?"

Anna smiles at him. "Not at all. There's plenty of space out here for the two of us."

He lingers for a moment more, before taking his first steps. "Do you mind if I join you?"

Her heart flutters. He could choose to sit wherever he wanted, for the courtyard is big enough to accommodate several people, and yet he wants to sit with her. She manages an eager nod, wonders if he notices.

If he does, he doesn't let it show. He simply crosses to her side and lowers himself beside her. Resting his cane to one side, he tilts his head back and gazes up at the clear night sky, studded with so many jewel-like stars.

"You don't get stars like this in London," he comments. "The smog stifles them out."

"The countryside is the best place in the world for them," she agrees. "We're lucky here. We see them most nights. I take it you're rather a star gazer, Mr. Bates?"

He chuckles lowly, the sound making the hairs on the back of her neck prickle with anticipation. "I wouldn't say that. I know a little bit about astrology, but only from the books I read as a boy."

"That's more than I know. Sometimes my father would take me out on an evening, but I was too young to understand anything beyond how pretty they were." Thinking of her father is still raw, a powerful agony inside her chest, and she blinks away the tears that have welled at the mere memory of him, gruff and craggy-faced, with the purest heart of gold. So many men wanted sons, but she remembers the way that her dad had cuddled her and her sister close and called them his precious baby girls, dropping kisses into their blonde hair. Her throat closes.

Mr. Bates sees at once. He's the kind of man who detects subtle changes in people, and she likes to think, or dream, or hope, that he notices the changes in her because even after such a short period of time, he knows her so well.

"Anna?" he prompts softly.

He's only said her name, but she feels as if he's reached right inside her brain and tugged the thoughts out of her.

"I'm being silly. It's just…my dad's no longer here. Sometimes it catches me when I'm least expecting it."

"I'm sorry to hear that," he says softly.

"I was very young," she tries to say airily, to levy its impact.

"I should say that makes it worse," says Mr. Bates.

"Maybe. Do…do you mind if we don't talk about it?"

"Of course not. I should never have mentioned it."

"You weren't to know."

They're silent for a time, and the cold wind blows between them. Anna shivers inadvertently.

"Should you be out here?" Mr. Bates says, tone laced with worry. "They've got the fire going in the servants' hall. Go and have a warm."

"In a minute. It's harder to contemplate life when you're surrounded by Mrs. Patmore's shrieking."

Mr. Bates lets out a low, full-throated chuckle at that. The sound catches her off-guard. She's never heard him laugh like this before. The sound makes her tingle. It's a very pleasant sensation, and she just barely resists the urge to shuffle closer. It breaks something inside her, another bar on the cage that keeps her heart imprisoned.

"I was thinking about my dad, actually." The words flow from her lips like a river that has burst its dam. She knows that she can't share too much with him—she's never shared any of it with anyone— but there is something about him that makes her trust him. She can't put her finger on it. It just is, as natural as the sun rising in the east.

"I see," he says. He does not say any more. He is undoubtedly curious, but he will not pry. He is made of a different substance to the others. It makes her trust him, want him, more. It makes the words spill out of her mouth unbidden.

"I was thinking about what he would think of me now. If he would be proud of me." If he would be proud of the strength that she had displayed when faced with her stepfather, no more than a young child. Or would he be angry with her, blame her for what had occurred? Women were always to blame in those kinds of situations. Perhaps it would be no different with a child.

"What's brought that on?" he asks with genuine concern.

Anna shakes herself. Not now. She's not ready for that. Probably never will be. It will go with her to the grave, never passing her lips.

"I don't know," she says. "I told you, I'm in a strange mood tonight. I'll go back inside now. It's a little too cold for my liking. Goodnight, Mr. Bates."

"Goodnight," he murmurs, and she rises to leave, feeling his eyes on her with every step that she takes. Before she reaches the back door, he stops her with that soothing rumble.

"Anna."

She turns on her heel and watches him rise to his full height. He's shadowed against the stars as he limps towards her. She waits with bated breath until he reaches her side. He towers above her, but standing in his presence, she feels respected. Safe. There's a moment or two of hesitance before he dips his head closer, his warm breath kissing her forehead.

"For what it's worth," he says quietly, "your father would be very, very proud of the woman you've become, Anna. Very proud indeed."

And with that, he slips past her, and is gone.

* * *

 _November 1912_

It's been an exhausting day. She's been rushed off her feet from the moment that she got out of bed, and she's been dreaming longingly of collapsing into it from the moment that she dressed the girls for breakfast. Unfortunately, it's gone midnight now and although she's finally made it to bed, she simply cannot sleep. She's too on edge to relax enough. What she needs is something to soothe her into slumber. A glass of milk is usually the perfect ticket. She heads for the servants quarters, expecting to find it completely silent after the bustles of the day.

She doesn't expect to hear soft sobbing and the gentle rumble of a man's voice.

She'd recognise the man's voice anywhere. No one else's can do what his does to her, sending warm, pleasant shivers scurrying down her spine and heating the very blood in her veins. Mr. Bates. What is he doing down here, with a crying woman no less?

Heart thudding in her chest, Anna creeps forward. She's suddenly glad that she's only in her bare feet now, aching from where her shoes have been rubbing her all day. Like a thief hiding in the shadows, she peers around the doorway into the servants' hall.

The place is lit by only two candles, but it throws enough into relief. Daisy sits at the table, twisting her hands together as she cries. Mr. Bates has pulled out the chair next to her.

"You can tell me what's wrong, you know," he tells her gently. "I'm not going to tell Mrs. Patmore. Whatever it is, it stays between me and you."

Daisy continues to cry for a little longer, anguished sounds that break Anna's heart too. She likes the young girl, for all her naivety and airy-fairy ways. Anna had been much quieter when she'd first arrived at Downton, filled with determination to do well and make something of herself, but she sees something in the young, frightened girl that hits her close to home. She has to stop herself from stepping into the hall to join them. She doesn't want to cause Daisy any more embarrassment. She lurks in the shadows instead, only feeling slightly guilty for eavesdropping.

Eventually, Daisy says, "Mrs. Patmore doesn't like me."

"What makes you say that?"

"She's always shoutin' at me and callin' me a fool. I'm tryin' my hardest, Mr. Bates, honest, but I can't seem to do anything right. She'd get rid of me in a heartbeat if she could, I know it."

"Of course she likes you."

"She doesn't!" Daisy repeats stubbornly. Her voice wavers.

Silently, Mr. Bates reaches into his jacket and hands over his handkerchief. Sniffing, Daisy takes it, blowing her nose.

"I think the fact that Mrs. Patmore is hard on you means something else entirely," he says gently when she's done.

"What do you mean?"

"Think on it this way. If Mrs. Patmore wasn't so harsh on you, it might mean that she didn't think you had much chance of progressing in this line of work. If she pushes you, it means that she must see something in you. You're a hardworking girl, Daisy. Hard work will get you a long way, especially in a house like this. Progressing in our careers is very important, and this will be a good opportunity for you."

"I could never be as good as her," Daisy says miserably.

"And why not?"

"Because I'm nothing like her! I'm stupid and clumsy!"

Anna hears Mr. Bates sigh. "Daisy, Mrs. Patmore wasn't born the perfect article. She's had to work hard to get where she is now. No one under this roof knew what they were doing when they first started out. Every single one of us has had to hone years of training to get here. It's not easy, but it's achievable, if you apply yourself properly and aren't deterred."

Anna thinks of her own past, of the struggles that she's had to overcome to get where she is today. She knows little of Daisy's background—it seems that strangers living together is the way of the servant life—but people like them have rarely had a good start to end up where they do.

Daisy is silent for a moment. Then, quietly, she says, "Thank you, Mr. Bates."

"There's nothing to thank me for," he replies, and Anna can hear the smile in his voice. "Now, why don't you head up to bed? I can tidy up after myself."

"I _am_ rather tired," Daisy admits shyly. "Thank you."

Footsteps sound across the flagstones. Anna scrambles back at once. It wouldn't do to be caught eavesdropping. Especially not by him. Especially not when he seems to hold her in such high regard.

Sans milk, she creeps back upstairs to her bed. Gwen is still sleeping soundly, and she sneaks back under the covers, turning on her side so that she's facing away from her friend, staring into the darkness. Thinking about her experience.

The thought catches her unbidden. Mr. Bates' treatment of Daisy had almost been like a father with his daughter, gentle, affectionate, kind and encouraging. It strikes her again that there is so little that she truly knows about the man, apart from the fact that his mother lives in London and he was injured in the Boers. But what about the rest of his family? Does he have a wife down south, a family that he sends his stipend home to? And…are there children? Perhaps a daughter just like Daisy, dark haired and dark eyed, the spitting image of him. Her heart contracts in her chest at the possibility of him having children with another woman, though of course she has no right to think like that. She has no right to his heart at all.

Resigned, she buries her head under her pillow. Try as she might, she can't get the idea of Mr. Bates and a child of his own out of her mind. Perhaps that's why he's so polite, so warm with her and yet so distant at the same time. Perhaps she's seeing things that aren't there to see, because she wants him for herself so much. Has she made a fool out of herself? Is he too kind to crush her dreams?

It does not make for a restful night.

* * *

 _January 1913_

Over the weeks, Mr. Bates' colour slowly returns. The limp that had been heavier and more painful than ever has receded back into the usual uneven step. Anna is glad to see it. She had been very worried about him for a time. Pale Irish complexion or not, the pallor of his skin recently has been nothing short of alarming. Thankfully, whatever has plagued him seems to have passed. Her own nightmares about Mr. Pamuk's dead hands reaching out for her have dwindled somewhat too. And to think that just before his untimely demise she had admired him for his good looks, rather surprised with how easy it had been, secure in her feelings for Mr. Bates.

She comes across him in the boot room with a pair of his lordship's shoes when she has some of Lady Mary's to polish, and he casts a small smile her way. Placing the shoes down, she takes the stool beside him, reaching out for the polish left on the table. No words pass between them, but they're not necessary. Anna loves that about the evolution of their relationship. It's never awkward between them. They don't need to speak to be comfortable.

But when she accidentally brushes against his leg beneath the table, Mr. Bates lets out an involuntary hiss. She draws back at once, wide-eyed, almost falling out of her seat.

"Are you all right, Mr. Bates?" she asks, reaching out to touch his forearm without even thinking about it.

"I'm fine, thank you, Anna," he replies quickly, his features schooled once more into the impenetrable mask. But, for that split-second, she'd seen it slip, had glimpsed the flash of agony that had torn him in two. Before, she might have shrunk back from it, allowing him his privacy, not confident enough around him to press, but it's different now. She feels like she knows him intimately enough to worry about his health, and the sound that he'd made had been far from natural.

"There's something," she says boldly, setting down the shoe she's scrubbing at with a business-like air. "I hurt you."

"You didn't. It's just my knee twinging. It's been acting up for a while, but it's nothing to trouble you with."

"I was nowhere near your knee," she retorts. "Why are you being so mysterious? What are you hiding from me?"

She regrets the words as soon as they leave her mouth; though his face expression doesn't falter, she reads the suffering in his eyes. He's always so curiously self-deprecating, and he's berating himself now, thinking himself a failure. She softens her tone.

"I hope you know that you can trust me," she says. "I would never betray your confidence. Never."

"I do trust you," he says. Perhaps a tad too quickly. "It's never been a question of trust."

"Then what is it? Please, let me help you."

"It's not something that you can help with."

"How do I know that unless you tell me? I think I should have the deciding voice on whether or not I can or can't help."

Mr. Bates' mouth quirks resignedly. "Perhaps now isn't the best time. I wouldn't want anyone to walk in on us."

Anna raises an intrigued eyebrow, heat flashing low as the fleeting thought flickers through her mind. Clearing her throat, she says, "Everyone's busy. If you're quick, we won't be disturbed."

It seems that he has no more ammunition left, for he heaves a sigh.

He drops his hands to his right trouser leg.

Anna's heart is launched to her throat, but the hot flare is soon sluiced icy cold when she sees the livid red welts appear. She resists the urge to cover her mouth, but only barely. Mr. Bates' eyes are on her face, and she knows he's searching for any sign of pity or disgust. She won't show him either.

From knee to ankle, Mr. Bates' skin is criss-crossed in angry red marks, thick and vivid. Slowly, she edges herself closer, sinking down to her knees in front of him.

"What have you done?" she whispers, reaching out to touch and stopping herself in time. Her hand hovers uncertainly for a moment before dropping back to her side.

Mr. Bates won't look at her. He speaks reluctantly. "I um…I saw an advertisement in the newspaper."

"For what? A torture device?"

He chuckles humourlessly. "A limp corrector."

" _What?"_ Anna's mouth tumbles open, and this time she can't stop herself from reaching out to touch the ruined skin, keeping it light so as not to hurt him, but desperate to heal him, as if placing her palm over the painful sores will make them disappear, protect him from the world which beats him down.

Mr. Bates barks another joyless laugh. He seems frozen in place, his muscles tense beneath her touch. She looks up to find his eyes hot and terse upon her.

"I was foolish enough to think it might work," he says. "I wanted to believe it so much that it made me stupid."

"You don't need to change," she says fiercely. "You should be proud of who you are. It's those that scorn you who are the fools. You were injured fighting for Queen and country. You saved his lordship's _life_. You're the reason that Lady Grantham wasn't left a widow. You're the reason that Lady Mary and Lady Edith and Lady Sybil all grew up with their father." She juts her chin defiantly, his sadness making her bold. "You're the bravest man I've ever met, Mr. Bates."

He clears his throat. This time, he pulls away, his trouser leg falling down to cover his wounds once more. She remains kneeling by his feet.

"Where is it now?" she asks quietly.

"You needn't worry about me using it again," he says, bitterly. "It's at the bottom of the lake."

Anna raises her eyebrow in surprise. "That's rather drastic."

"Yes. Well." He picks up the scrubbing brush again, and she takes the hint. She resumes her own seat and begins to work in silence, but his admission consumes her, makes her heart ache. He'd tried to change himself, because the others rejected him and sneered at him. They had all been the cause of this man's hurt, were partly to blame for his self-hatred.

She reaches out and takes the shoe he's polishing away from his hands. He frowns in surprise, and she waits until his eyes meet hers before speaking again.

"I don't want you to think that you need to change," she says forcefully. "Because there's no need for you to do so. You are perfect just the way you are."

"I am far from perfect," he says, and there is an edge to his voice. Almost as if he is afraid. Under other circumstances, it might have frightened her off. But the stark red lines have bled into her memory, the marks of his pain. She will remember them for the rest of her life, will come to know them intimately well, more scars that will never heal completely.

"You are perfect to me," she says fiercely. "You should never change for anyone. And I don't want you to change for me."

Mr. Bates takes back his lordship's shoes. He pushes his stool away from the table, the legs screeching against the flagstones.

"I have every reason to change," he tells her sharply, and limps heavily out of the room, leaving her stunned.

He avoids her for the rest of the evening, but the following day he catches her alone on the upstairs gallery. He's bashful. Ashamed.

"I'm sorry for the way I spoke to you yesterday," he says. "I had no right to do so. It was abhorrent, and you didn't deserve it. I appreciate what you said. I'm grateful for your kindness, truly."

It wasn't only kindness, but out here, in the main house, Anna is more self-aware. She'd pushed too hard yesterday. She'd frightened him. Whether it's because he does feel the same, or because he doesn't, she can't quite work out. But she won't make the same mistake twice.

"You're welcome," she says, keeping her tone professional. "I don't like to see you hurting, that's all."

She's not sure if it's her imagination or not, but his face seems to fall.

"I'm not used to letting people in," he says at last. "I've only had myself to rely on for quite some time. I'm not sure what to do with a friend."

"I'm glad you consider me as such."

"Very much so." He hesitates a moment, before pressing on, his fingers brushing hers for the briefest of seconds. "I could never have shared what I shared with you yesterday with anyone else, and then I went and spoiled it. I know I have a funny way of showing it sometimes, but I appreciate your wisdom, Anna."

She inclines her head towards him, and he clears his throat.

"Mustn't hold you up," he says. "I'll see you downstairs."

She lets him pass her by, and when he's rounded the corner, she allows the wall to catch her, just for a moment. She stares at the spot that he's vacated, and she can't fight the small smile that tugs at the corner of her mouth.

 _I could never have shared what I shared with you yesterday with anyone else._

She doesn't want to give into some sweet words as soon as they're uttered. That's not who she is. Or was. She isn't sure anymore. The way that he talks is frustrating, creating a constantly confusing swirl in her mind.

And yet she can't help herself.

She brings the fingers that he'd touched to her lips, brushing over them. He melts her.

* * *

 _March 1913_

Now that Gwen's ambitions are public knowledge and no longer private, she feels much more comfortable about conducting her typing practices. She argues that she doesn't want to get rusty by only practicing once in a blue moon long after Anna has drifted off to sleep, not now that everyone knows. Instead she lugs the great packing case all the way down to the servants' hall so she can sit in the common area with the rest of them while still perfecting her skill. It's not to the taste of everyone; Mr. Carson clears his throat and huffs grumpily with every clack of the keys while Miss O'Brien scowls as if she's personally being aggrieved by the device and Mrs. Patmore goes around telling anyone who will listen that the thing is the devil's handiwork itself. The rest of the staff treat it with varying degrees of interest, from Daisy's frightened fascination to William's eager thirst to know more. Anna herself has no strong opinions on the matter either way. She's very glad that her friend is taking the opportunity to better herself in a world that has always been set against the working classes, but she herself doesn't feel the burning desire to learn.

On this night, she steps into the servants' hall to find Gwen occupying the seat that is usually by default reserved for her, by Mr. Bates' side. Daisy sits across, wide-eyed with interest. Mr. Bates himself is watching the younger woman's movements, though he has a book propped open in front of him too.

"What's going on?" Anna asks as she steps inside cautiously.

Mr. Bates looks up and casts her a half-smile, but it's Gwen who answers. "Mr. Bates is testing me."

"Well, I don't know about that," he says. "I don't think I'm properly trained to know the ins and the outs of the business."

"Well, he _was_ supposed to be watching the clock for me," Gwen amends, "but he appears to have got distracted."

"You've stopped," he points out. "There's little point timing you when you're not even typing."

Unbidden, Anna feels a flash of jealousy. Which is absurd. He's teasing the younger woman, but there's no flirting in his tone. Perhaps it's the fact that Gwen is trying to flirt with him, and he isn't dissuading her from it. She's noticed that a lot recently, Gwen shadowing Mr. Bates. Ever since he'd given her his support over her change in career, she's been trying to spend more time with him. Anna is not unkind enough to call it a nuisance, but it certainly makes it difficult to catch five minutes alone with him, especially when their spare time is already woefully inadequate.

Pushing away those thoughts, Anna moves to sit opposite Mr. Bates, making an effort to smile. "So, how's she doing?"

"Very well, I think," he says. "I'm sure she'll be where she wants to be sooner rather than later."

Gwen beams at the words, resuming the clicking of the buttons. Daisy sighs covetously.

"I wish I could do that," she says. "Did it take you long to learn, Gwen?"

"At the beginning," the other woman replies. "But then it just fell into place. What about you, Mr. Bates? Have you ever learned how to use something that you were clueless about at the beginning?"

"I have," he says quietly. He does not expand on it, but nor does he need to; those two words are heavy with thinly veiled emotion. He keeps his gaze trained on his book, and in turn Anna finds herself morbidly fascinated by him, by the stories that he keeps locked tight beneath his stoic, starched front. Because he had to learn to see terrible things and do terrible things, all in the name of survival. He never offers much about his time in the war, but she can read his eyes. He still carries the pain and grief within him. His eyes always give him away. Their expressiveness, like a storm beneath calm waters, is one of the most attractive things about him.

Gwen looks flustered for a moment at having inadvertently tainted the atmosphere, but with an effort Mr. Bates draws a smile to his face and gestures to her typewriter.

"Shall I look through that for you?" he asks. "Make sure you haven't made any mistakes?"

"That would be nice," Gwen replies, the relief distinct in her voice. She hands over the sheaves of paper, and Mr. Bates begins to study them as if they are the singularly most interesting manuscript that he has ever read in his life. Anna tries to busy herself with making a cup of tea from the things that Daisy has brought through, but she can't stop herself from casting surreptitious looks his way whenever she thinks she can get away with it. He's completely engrossed. A little frown creases his forehead. He always gets it when he's concentrating particularly hard. His long fingers glide across the pages. She's almost hypnotised by their path.

"Excellent, Gwen," he says at last. "Perfect. If you carry on like this there's not a chance that anyone will be able to stop you."

"Just have to get a job now," she says, her cheeks going pink. "I don't seem to have much luck at the interviews."

"You will," he reassures her. "If you believe in yourself, there's nothing you won't be able to do, I'm sure."

He hands the papers back and gives her an encouraging smile. Gwen lowers her gaze from his and shuffles them self-consciously.

"Mr. Bates is right, Gwen," says Daisy. "You'll do ever so well. I'd be so scared of it bitin' my hand that I wouldn't dare use it."

Gwen laughs. "It can't bite, Daisy, don't be silly. I'll teach you, if you'd like."

"Oh, I don't know…"

Before any more can be said, Mrs. Patmore bellows the kitchen maid's name. Daisy jumps, and scurries from the room like a little mouse frightened to face the big cat. Mr. Bates reaches for his cup of tea and leans back in his chair while Gwen begins to talk about her chances of achieving her dreams, and somehow Anna feels lost in the crowd. When his attention is purely on her, she feels like a queen, such a foreign sensation. When he's focused on someone else, the perplexity swirls within her. Alone, she thinks she's as special to him as he is to her. In a crowd, she is treated no differently to any of the others.

She stands up. His eyes find her at once.

"Anna? Is something wrong?" he asks.

"No," she replies, trying to make the smile fit her face. "I'm just a bit tired, that's all. I think I'll have an early night. It's not often that I get the opportunity."

"Of course. Sleep well." She isn't sure if it's her imagination, but she thinks his tone is slightly downcast. She won't contemplate it too much. Not now.

Bidding goodnight to the others in the room, she treads the familiar path up to her bed, leaning back against the door once it's closed behind her. Sighing, she begins to strip.

She has no reason to suspect that there might be something more blossoming under the surface with Gwen, for Mr. Bates has only ever treated her with polite warmth, but it does make her doubt other things. Because while she is older than Gwen, it's only by a few years, and there is a large discrepancy between her age and Mr. Bates'. He's got to be in his early forties, while she is in her mid-twenties, and that must present some problems. Not for her in the sense that he is older, because age is but a number to her, and she would much rather spend her life with a man that she clicks with rather than someone nearer to her own age. For her, a happy life means sharing herself with someone who has the same outlook, same interests, same sense of humour, same hopes. Two people who fit together perfectly to create a whole. A tad sentimentalist and overly-romantic? Perhaps. She's surprised that she still has the ability to feel that way, but she knows that she's strong. She's been strong enough to overcome her past, to defy it and love all the same. No matter what comes, even if her heart is set to be broken, she will never regret that.

Because she doesn't worry that he is too old for her, but rather that he might think her too young for him. Mr. Bates is a clever man. Well-travelled, well read. He's been in a war, has been injured in the line of duty. And what has she done? She's never left Yorkshire. She's worked from the age of thirteen, from a tweeny to where she is now. She's seen more of life than any woman her age ought to have, but he doesn't know that. She's probably just a nice, innocent girl, the same as Gwen.

She _wants_ to believe that she's as special to him as he's become to her. But sometimes life can be cruel, relegating her to a womanly version of King Sisyphus, doomed to a heart aching and pointless task for all eternity.

* * *

 _May 1913_

Being ill is not something that Anna is accustomed to. And yet here she is, laid up in bed with a head cold, sniffling and sneezing like a thing possessed. Mrs. Hughes had been kind enough to bring up a powder, and that has thankfully stopped the pounding at her temple, but her eyes still throb. Nevertheless, she can't bear the thought of lying here for hours doing nothing, so she takes out her book. The candlelight does little to throw the words into relief, and she can barely focus her eyes enough to read them. She's on the verge of giving up when she hears the knock.

When she finds him standing before her, eyes crinkling with the smile on his lips, the tray made up for her and only her, with the pretty vase of wildflowers taking centre stage, her whole heart swells. He looks so boyish and eager standing there, like a lad bringing a token to his girl. The light in his eyes is enough to make her believe that there _is_ more between them, that their hearts have been tethered together not with thin string that could snap at any moment, but with thick rope that will endure the ages. She's thinking about leaning forward to kiss him, letting her mouth thank him without words, when the noise below them breaks through the sacred moment, and he seems to come back to himself. Nodding, he gives her one last smile and turns away, leaving her to lock the door behind her, unable to stop grinning herself.

Comparing it to the one that Gwen brings her later, she can't help but let her heart run away with her mind. Mr. Bates has provided flowers to cheer the place up, delicate purple and white blooms that smell heavenly. He'd upgraded the customary glass of water to one of rich, creamy milk. He'd given her enough butter to last her two whole weeks, never mind one meal. And the concoction of chicken and vegetables, leftovers from dinner upstairs, most likely, is a very lovely touch. Gwen's tray is thoughtful as a friend's, but this surely has to go beyond it.

Gwen eyes her curiously now as she begins to change into her nightclothes.

"Who made _that_ up for you, anyway?" she asks. "It doesn't look like Mrs. Patmore's handy work. Mrs. Hughes hasn't been in all Miss O'Brien is as likely to bring you something as she is to get on the servants' hall table and dance a jig while William plays the piano."

Anna snorts at the mental image, still toying with the petals on the flowers. "That will be the day."

"So, who was it? I saw you speaking with that Mr. Branson earlier. Was it him…?"

Gwen is staring at her intently, and she can't hold her gaze. She speaks to the flowers instead. "No, it wasn't. It was Mr. Bates."

"I see." Gwen speaks in the tone of voice that implies she'd been expecting that all along. "Well, he's a very kind man."

"He is," Anna agrees. But it goes beyond that too. He's never brought anyone else a tray. He's never picked flowers for anyone else. It has to mean something. It _has_ to.

At long last, she thinks that he's wordlessly shown her his hand.

* * *

 _July 1913_

He's using the brush left by the mirror in the hall when she comes downstairs. He has his cane and his coat hooked expertly over his left arm, and his gaze is calculating as he gauges his appearance, ensuring that he is properly pressed and put together before he steps outside.

She'd asked him if he had any plans for his half-day, and he'd told her that he would meander around the village in the fresh summer sunshine, just to say that he'd blown off the cobwebs. In the candlelight, she'd imagined him rumpled in the bright fields of flowers, his black and white dress a stark contrast to the vibrancy of the colourful floras, so unlike his prim self. Just the mere imagining of him sans tie and collar, waistcoat open, had had her all in a fluster, never mind the naughty turn of her thoughts as she'd placed herself in the scene, the fragrance of the flowers warm on his hot skin, his lips tasting hers…

Remembering those illicit thoughts now, in front of him, makes her blush and fumble, so unlike her usual demeanour. He makes her a fool in love. He raises his eyebrows at her through the mirror, and she descends the last of the stairs, her voice trilling a full octave higher as she wishes him a good half-day.

"I might see you later on," she says. "I have something to collect from the post office for Lady Sybil."

"Do you?" he says. "In that case, how about I meet you?"

"What?" His words have her breathless with excitement. They've often been to the village together before, but he has never offered to meet her, and especially not on his sacred half-day. She tries not to read too much into it, but it is seductively difficult, like laying a plate of luxurious chocolates in front of her and then asking her not to taste even one.

"I'll meet you," he repeats patiently. "That's if you don't mind."

"I wouldn't mind," she says quickly. "I'd enjoy the company very much."

"So would I," he says. The crinkles around his eyes deepen as he smiles at her. "What time should I expect you?"

Anna calculates the jobs she has in her head. She has some mending to complete and Lady Edith's evening dress to press. She might be able to get away with doing the mending later tonight, when the others have gone to bed. It's not something that has to be completed urgently.

"Half past three?" she guesses.

"I'll keep my eye on the time. Where do you want to meet?"

"Outside the bookshop is usually a good spot."

He nods at her, tipping his hat her way as he presses it on. She watches as he makes his way towards the back door, her heart fluttering as if it's grown wings in her chest.

Later, she pulls on her simple black coat over her maid's uniform and nigh on runs to the village. The mere thought of a snatched hour with him makes her mouth dry. How she can't wait. It's not as if they're courting, of course. She won't nestle her hand in the crook of his arm and he won't lean down to share a sneaky kiss with her on the road back to Downton, hidden by a grove of trees, him tasting of sweat and sunshine. But being near him is more than enough for now, lovesick as she is. Perhaps spending time with him truly alone will give her the opportunity to discover more of his heart.

She'd thought that she might be waiting for him when she arrives, but there he is, standing to attention outside the modest bookshop, knee at a jaunty angle as is customary. She takes a moment to pat her hair before he sees her, then makes her way over to him.

He removes his hat as soon as he sees her approaching, holding it near his chest until she reaches him.

"Hello," he says gently.

"Hello," she replies, adjusting the basket she has over her arm. "Have you been enjoying your half-day?"

"It's just improved greatly," he tells her, and she burns for him. Oh, what he does to her.

Mr. Bates replaces his hat as they begin to meander round the village. Anna purposefully slows her step, knowing that she shouldn't really linger when it's not her allotted time off. But still, she can't help herself. She's found that when she's around him, she's not in control of her actions. Her heart makes all of her choices for her.

They fall into conversation easily as they move about, gossiping about the latest feuds between the servants and laughing at Daisy's recent antics, and she walks closer to him than is strictly proper, the sleeve of her coat brushing against his. His eyes are warm coals on her. Dizzyingly, she wonders what he would do if she reached out and took his hand. There's something sparked to life between them, an electricity in the very air that she's breathing. Surely he must feel it too. This alchemy that has erupted between them, it can't be a figment of her imagination. Not when he looks at her like that.

They collect the parcel for Lady Sybil, and she stows it in her basket. Mr. Bates nods towards it when they re-emerge into the bright sunlight.

"Any ideas what that is?"

"A few," Anna says, leaning in on the pretext of being conspiratorial, but inhaling a little more deeply than usual, just to get a sniff of him. "She's getting very interested in women's politics. I suspect that these are more pamphlets on the subject."

"Ah, the muddy waters of politics. I dare say his lordship won't be too pleased."

"Which is why you mustn't say a word."

"Don't worry, my lips are sealed. Whatever you say to me is in the strictest of confidences." He mimes fastening his lips, and she giggles. She likes that he lets his guard down around her, however briefly. It makes her feel special. Like she is his.

"And what are your feelings on the subject, Mr. Bates?" she asks. "Do you think Lady Sybil is wrong?"

"I think Lady Sybil has a right to know more about the movement," he said slowly. "But I'm not sure if keeping her father in the dark is the best way to go about it, especially with the rumbles we're starting to hear."

"I think you're right, but I don't think Lady Sybil will agree. She's likely to think he'd be against her."

"Well, she's probably not wrong there, either. Anyway, have you got anything else to do?"

"No," she admits reluctantly. "Which means I ought to be heading back before I get accused of shirking my duties by Thomas or Miss O'Brien."

"You could," he says. "Or you could push the boundaries and stay just a little longer."

Anna's heart leaps, even as she raises an eyebrow. "And what reason do I have for that?"

That rare, mischievous spark flares in his gaze. "We could have tea. I know how much you like Mrs. Burton's cakes."

"Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes wouldn't be very pleased if they found out."

"And how will they? I shan't tell them. And they'd believe you if you said you got held up. You're a favourite with everyone."

The compliment makes her glow, but she doesn't dare voice the thoughts in her head. Is she a favourite with him too? His favourite in more ways than one?

"Come on," he coaxes her. "Half an hour. No one will notice half an hour. It's on me."

"All right," she relents, unable to stop her smile. "Lead the way, Mr. Bates."

She follows him down the street, towards the bright lights of the tea shop. It's always bustling at this time of day, packed with patrons, and Anna's heart flutters at the thought of the two of them being sequestered away in a corner together, all alone. They've never been out in this manner before. She knows it's not a date, not at all, but that doesn't stop her dreaming that it's a step in the right direction.

They're at the door when they're hailed from down the street.

"Anna, Mr. Bates!"

Anna whips around at once to find Mrs. Hughes hurrying towards them. She takes a guilty step into the street. Mrs. Hughes will know what she was doing. She'll have something to answer to now.

When the housekeeper reaches them, she raises a suspicious eyebrow. "What are you doing here?"

"I—um—Lady Sybil's package," she mumbles. "I cleared it with Mr. Carson."

"And you've got it?"

She hesitates for a moment. "It's in my basket."

Thankfully, Mr. Bates steps in calmly, his stoic veneer never faltering. "I've just finished having tea and I saw Anna passing by the window. I'm just about to head back to the house myself and I was wondering if Anna might like the company." He turns to look at her now. "I won't be offended if you'd prefer the solitude."

Mrs. Hughes' eyes burn into her, but she manages to keep her composure intact. "I'd have no objections."

He dips his head deferentially, seeking out the housekeeper. "We'll see you back at the house."

"Oh, I was heading in that direction myself. I'll join you."

Mrs. Hughes' tone brooks no argument, and she sandwiches herself in the middle of them, herding them along the main street like sheep. Anna tightens her jaw, clutching the basket's handle tight in her fist until the wicker bites into her. Half an hour more alone with him, that's all she'd been asking for.

There won't be another opportunity like that until a grassy walk to the flower show, when everything will change forever.

"What were you doing in the village?" Mr. Bates asks Mrs. Hughes as they walk. "If it was only to get something trivial, you should have asked me."

"The house needs some stamps. And I certainly wouldn't disturb your afternoon off. Heavens knows they don't come around that often."

"I wouldn't have minded. I like having things to do."

"So you've shown us. I know Mr. Carson is grateful for the extra help that you give him polishing the silver, but don't feel like you need to. It's not in a valet's duties."

"I can't perform the ones I know he'd like me to, so it's a small way of helping him elsewhere."

"Nonsense. There's no need to be sorry for circumstances outside of your control."

She knows, Anna realises with sudden, horrible clarity. Mrs. Hughes knows about the limp corrector, just as she does. It's in the tone of the housekeeper's voice, in the soft way she's looking at him, as if she's had a revelation that has changed her opinion of him for good.

Had he told her too? Why would he? She'd always thought him private, that he'd told her the truth because he trusted her.

Because he'd liked her.

Now, she isn't sure what to think, feels the uncertainty and, yes, the jealously gnawing at the pit of her stomach. She's not the only woman he's shared confidences with. Do they speak often, the two of them? Mrs. Hughes is much older than him, but that rarely means anything. Perhaps she's not the only one who has been daydreaming about running her hands through his thick hair, of the press of his body against hers, of practicing introducing herself as Mrs. Bates.

Oblivious to her thoughts, Mr. Bates says, "I like to help where I can, Mrs. Hughes, that's all."

Anna shakes her head. Lord, she's getting silly in her old age. Silly and jealous. Why should she fear Mrs. Hughes when she doesn't fear Gwen?

As they walk along together, Mrs. Hughes not quite in time with Mr. Bates' lilting gait, Anna scrutinises them. There is nothing out of the ordinary about their exchange. Mr. Bates levels the same pleasantness at the housekeeper as he does with everyone else, skilfully directing the conversation back towards the woman whenever it strays too much towards him. He looks at her intently when she speaks, as if there is no one else who could possibly hold his attention, but doesn't he do that with everyone, the gentleman inside him forever striving to make a good impression?

The thought makes her run cold, and the old doubts resurface. Whenever she thinks she's getting somewhere with him, something happens to make her reconsider everything that she's been thinking about. She should have learned the hard way by now. Dreams are as corporeal as smoke when it comes to her, and the slightest breath of wind can make them disintegrate into nothing.

"Anna?"

She shakes her head, coming back to herself. "I'm sorry, what did you say?"

Mrs. Hughes eyes her quizzically. "I asked if you were all right. You look deep in thought."

"Oh, just thinking about the tasks I've got to get done when I get back, that's all."

"Just don't overwork yourself. I'm still not entirely convinced that your cold wasn't as a result of pushing yourself too hard. You're only human."

That has become painfully clear. Only, only, only. Only a girl, only a colleague, only a friend. Never more than the sum of her parts. Walking along with the two of them, Anna is reminded that as a servant, every moment spent imagining a life that is not her own is but a fleeting thing, a moment of brilliance in an opal sky, the white-hot flash of a shooting star.

But shooting stars are in the last moments of their lives, and there are some things that can never be, no matter how much they're yearned for.

* * *

 _August 1913_

The burgeoning spring has matured into a glorious summer. Time has passed, but her feelings for Mr. Bates have not passed with it. Like the summer months, they have only grown hotter, stronger than ever before. There is no turning back now. Even despite her own reservations, her heart had bloomed into life under his inadvertent nurturing, and, like a sturdy weed, she feels that it's a hardy little thing.

Three afternoons following his cryptic words in Lady Edith's bedroom, he happens across her in one of Downton's grassy fields, come alive with a kaleidoscope of brilliant colours. The time of the flower show always excites her, for although she cannot grow flowers to present herself, there's little that gives her greater pleasure than inhaling the perfumed scents, blossoming and sprouting anew. If she had a garden of her own, she would grow them all. In years to come, she will.

It's her free afternoon, and she hadn't fancied anything more than sitting outside in her lighter frock with the sun reddening the skin on the back of her neck, a blanket to keep her skirts clean, and a book to keep her entertained when she isn't diverted by nature. His presence is a surprise. Since their conversation, he's been quieter than ever, not least because of the news of the missing snuffbox. His words have affected her in much the same way, shy in his presence. She's read between the lines of his words a thousand times over since he'd uttered them. _Sometimes we're not at liberty to speak. Sometimes it wouldn't be right._ What does that mean? That he doesn't feel worthy of her? That he feels the differences in age and life experience would ultimately be their undoing? That his heart has no right to be given to her when it has already been tied to another in the holiest of bonds? No matter how much she thinks on it, she can't seem to get any closer to puzzling it out.

"What are you doing out here?" she asks when she sits up to acknowledge his approach. Mr. Bates gestures to his side, where his lordship's cherished yellow lab slowly saunters.

"His lordship is slightly concerned that Pharaoh here is eating too many of Mrs. Patmore's prized sausages. I offered to take the chap on a longer walk around the grounds. Slightly selfish of me, I have to confess. I thought it might be nice to get out for a while."

She knows what he's inferring. The stares and the whispers have been following him around ever since Mr. Carson made the announcement about the missing snuffbox. She doesn't believe that he could do something like that for a single second—one look at his pale face had been enough to convince her of his innocence—but she knows that many of the others are distrustful, not helped in the slightest by Thomas and Miss O'Brien's poisonous barbs.

"Perhaps you could have a sneaky ten minutes with me," she says. "Poor Pharaoh looks like he needs the rest."

It's true: the plump dog has his tongue lolled out, and he pants happily but heavily. Mr. Bates chuckles.

"Perhaps it's not a bad idea," he concedes. "And no one would dare question an order about the dog."

Anna giggles, watching as he tosses his cane to the floor and slowly begins to lower himself. She's quick to turn her attention to Pharaoh, not wishing to embarrass him. Pharaoh flops between them. She scratches behind his ears idly, and he grunts in satisfaction, moving his head onto her lap. She'll be covered in fur by the end of it, but she doesn't mind.

"You like dogs, then," Mr. Bates says once he's settled. He pats Pharaoh's large side.

"I like all animals," she answers, "though I must admit I have a soft spot for cats. We had a stray back home. I used to save my dinner and feed it in the evening. Mum would tell me off for doing it, but that sweet face enthralled me." She has an affinity with cats too. They can remain undetected in the shadows, have enough wits and courage to survive alone in the harshest of conditions. "I always wanted one of my own, but of course that will never happen."

"Why do you say that?" He's frowning as he turns towards her.

She shrugs. "I'll not be coming out of service."

"You don't know that. The right man is out there for you somewhere."

He is, Anna thinks miserably. He's sitting right beside her. And that's how she knows that there will never be a little home of her own, a houseful of children, a fat cat dozing on the windowsill among the flowers. Because there is something holding him back, a barrier to him making steps to court her, and they will be forever frozen in time like this. She bends her head and buries her face in Pharaoh's fur to hide the tears that rush to her eyes. The warm dog smell is comforting.

"It's not like you to give up," he says quietly.

"Sometimes it's foolish to cling on, Mr. Bates." And yet she is the biggest fool of all, for she clings to him fiercely, her whole body part of a forest fire that grows and rages inside her with every minute that she spends with him.

"I hate to see your optimism dampened."

"Optimism is not always realism. Optimism can sometimes be dangerous."

He has nothing to say to that. They sit in silence with the warm sun beating down on them, and if Pharaoh wasn't there, Anna isn't sure what she would have done. Thankfully, she can lavish her attention on the labrador. The old boy seems to enjoy it.

At length, Mr. Bates checks his pocket watch.

"I've lingered longer than I should have," he murmurs. "I should head back. Pharaoh looks like he needs a drink."

"Of course," she says automatically, busying herself with ruffling the dog's ears while Mr. Bates struggles back to his feet. "It's been a pleasure, good sir. I'm sure I'll see you in the kitchen soon enough."

"I'm sure you will," Mr. Bates says, and there is a tentative twinkle in his eye. "The good sir will look forward to you returning from your afternoon."

She can't stop the heat that floods her cheeks, plucking at blades of grass to occupy her hands. Mr. Bates limps away a few paces, hesitates, then turns back towards her.

"Anna," he says, "don't give up on what you want out of life. It might seem like the best thing to do." He barks a laugh. "It _is_ probably the best thing you could do. But I know there is a man out there who wants the same things you do."

He leaves her then, much the same as he had that fateful afternoon. She stares after him, and he hasn't said the words, but surely she knows what he'd been implying, that selfishly or not, he'd been referencing himself.

Surely.

* * *

When Mr. Bates limps back downstairs and lingers in the doorway, Anna makes her excuses and rises from her chair. The others give her speculative glances, but she ignores them, touching her fingertips to the sleeve of his jacket for the briefest of seconds to lead him away. They go right down the corridor until they're against the back door, sheltered from the rest of the servants.

"Did you find it?" she whispers.

He nods. "It was buried at the bottom of my wardrobe, right in the back corner."

"Those bleedin' nasty pieces of work," she hisses, her ire rising all over again at the memory of Thomas and Miss O'Brien's smirking faces as they had weaved their lies about Mr. Bates' conduct. "Who do you want to punish? I think you should give it to me. Miss O'Brien is a snake in the grass. Thomas is her puppet. Give it to me and I'll hide it in her room. See how she likes it when it backfires."

"I haven't got it with me," he says softly.

She frowns up at him. "What? What do you mean?"

"I've slipped it back into one of the cupboards in Lord Grantham's dressing room. I'll find it tomorrow."

"Why would you do that? This is your chance! You need to stand up for yourself, let them know that you're not going to be intimidated by them any longer! Fight fire with fire, I told you."

But he shakes his head. "No. We can still scare them. Let's encourage Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes to have that search. They won't find anything, but it will panic them. I don't think it's right to get someone sacked."

"Even if they deserve it?"

"Yes, even then. I have not been without sin in the past. I'm not without sin now. I won't stoop to the same level as they have to get revenge."

She shakes her head. "You really are a silly beggar." God, how this man can make her love him even more with a few simple words. The urge to reach up and caress his face is very strong, so she clasps her hands together in front of her. "You are a good man, Mr. Bates."

His face closes over at that. "I'm not. There are a great many things that I wish I could go back and do differently. There are things that I will never atone for, no matter how long I live."

She wonders if he's thinking of the atrocities of war. She's not stupid. He's probably killed hundreds of people during his time in the army, men with wives and young children, who were fighting for what they believed, in just like him. She knows little about the Boers, far too young to remember any of it and dealing with her own war, but she knows from experience that there are some atrocities that are too awful to ever forget.

"Well, allowing them to get away with this shows great strength of character, whatever you might want to argue," she says.

His smile is half-hearted. "If you say so."

"I do. Now, please stop worrying. You're no longer a target. They can't damage you with this anymore. When do you want to start the search?"

"After dinner would probably be good."

"I'll broach the subject, and then you can make the suggestion. Let them know that you haven't got it. I'm looking forward to seeing their faces."

"You've quite the wicked streak, Anna Smith." There is a smile in his voice.

"That makes me sound like a witch," she teases.

"Oh, you're nothing like a witch. A mischievous faery, perhaps."

"Oh, be off with you," she says.

He dips his head boyishly, and does as he's told. She watches him limp away, her heart beating in time to the tap of his cane. Her smile fades a little as he disappears into the servants' hall.

There is no necessity to protect Thomas and Miss O'Brien. They've been vile to him, and she would never blame him if he decided that he did want to punish them after all.

But he won't. Mr. Bates might say it's because of some guilt from the past, but Anna knows that it's because he doesn't have that kind of cruelty within him.

And the little worry niggles at the back of her mind as she slowly moves to re-join the others, that if he can be that considerate about his enemies, what does it really mean for his friends? Does it, ultimately, mean that she is no different to the rest after all, a friend that he extends a kindness to like he would anyone else?

Tomorrow afternoon, she will walk down the grassy lane with him and finally be able to take it no longer. All of the confusion, the frustration, the longing will boil over, and she'll bare her soul to him, letting him know in no uncertain terms that she loves him. He cannot know how long for.

She will not get the response that she'd wished for time and time again. But his gentle rejection does not spell the end of their love story.

* * *

 _April 1929_

They lie together in the humid, slick darkness, twined so closely that Anna genuinely doesn't know where she finishes and he begins. He's kissing her breathless, his palm cupping the side of her face so that he can draw her closer and pour every emotion he has into it. The intensity is almost overwhelming. Shuddering, she pulls away. He doesn't let up, massaging his fingers over the spot just behind her ear that makes her purr every time. She reaches up and catches his hand, holding it over her heart. His eyes are smoky as he looks upon her, and there are only three words that she can utter.

"I love you," she whispers.

The smile that breaks out over his face still leaves her breathless, even after more than ten years. "I love you too, my darling. So much."

He moves to kiss her again, and she lets him, basking in the affection that he shows towards her. When they part, naturally this time, she twines their fingers together, keeping her voice low as she speaks.

"I still find it hard to believe sometimes that we're here."

"What do you mean?" he asks. "You were the one who always told me that _I_ should believe."

"I don't just mean our life now. I mean any of it. If someone had told me the day before you arrived that my life would change forever then I would have thought them soft in the head. I never thought I could fall in love with anyone. I never expected you to steal my heart away quite like you did."

"Well, I was imprisoned as a thief," he deadpans. She snorts. It's good that they can laugh at some parts of their story. God knows they haven't had a lot to laugh about in their time.

Not wanting to dampen the moment, she pushes herself up on an elbow, peering down into his face, glowing silver in the moonlight. So very, very beautiful to her. She etches their initials just above his heart, thoughtful.

"I could never quite tell if you loved me," she says. "At the beginning, I drove myself mad with what ifs."

"What do you mean?" he whispers.

She draws a decisive, invisible heart around their names. "You were always so kind to me at the beginning. I lost count of the number of times you showered me with praise."

"Because I loved you," he admits. "I was a complete lovesick fool. I lived for your smile back then. I lived to see the look in your eyes when I spoke to you. I still do. I wasn't vain enough to believe that it could have been for me, and most of me _didn't_ want it to be for me because there was nothing I could do about anything, but there was a part of me that I couldn't cut out no matter how much I wanted to, and that part could only survive by looking at you."

"You did a good job of hiding it, I can tell you. Your sincerity was part of the problem."

"How so?"

"You were so nice to everyone, even when you didn't need to be. I couldn't tell if you just saw me the same way you saw everyone else, or if there could be more in your gaze. I wanted so desperately for there to be more, but the way you were with everyone…" Her voice trails off.

"You were unexpected," he tells her. "I thought I was past loving someone else, or being someone to love _to_ someone else. "I was trying to ready myself for many things when I started working at Downton, but I could never have readied myself for meeting you."

He leans down to kiss her again, his hand hot on her hip. She pushes herself further into his touch, trying to wordlessly explain the sudden need for reassurance that has sprung upon her unaware. But John has always been in tune with her, and he seems to instinctively understand her, his hand sliding down her back to grasp at her behind.

"I know I was maddening and difficult to read at the beginning," he says quietly. "But you did know, didn't you? It might have taken you a while to know for certain, but I was yours. Always yours."

There had been times when she'd been teetering on the edge of embracing it as fact. When he'd brought her the tea tray, arranged so delicately, with that prominent vase of flowers. Those flowers had almost sealed the deal. But then there had been his gentle rebuffal of her declaration of love, with his own that he couldn't tell her the truth of the secrets surrounding him. They'd still been close after that, but there had been an added layer of politeness that had staked her heart. Only after their near-kiss had she known the truth, but even that had been a huge wrench. He'd taken her hand in his and had leaned in to kiss her, but he hadn't revealed his feelings because he was overcome with passion and unable to keep them in any longer. He'd revealed them because it was the end, and he'd thought that afterwards he would never see her again. The knowledge at that time hadn't made her insides leap for the joy of it all.

But he's right. Whatever the circumstances, from that point onwards she _had_ known that she held his heart in her hands. Even during every seemingly impossible time that they had faced, it had never once wavered. Few people can boast the same.

"I know," she admits.

He moves closer, tantalisingly close to her mouth. "And look at what we've got now. Look what we've made."

The perfect life together. The dream hotel on the coast, only a couple of hours away from Downton and their old friends. The fat cat that they had rescued as a kitten, who sleeps in the window and soaks up the sun. And what they've made on a visceral level, too. The boy sleeping just along the hallway, blond haired and blue eyed, with his father's handsome looks and his broad build. Their eldest daughter, a mere year younger than her brother, also blessed with the Smith looks. And their four month old daughter, snuffling behind the cloth partition that they had put up to give them some privacy of an evening—Anna's nerves grating enough at John's continued insistence that he was sure the baby was watching them in bed together to do something about it—the only child to be the very image of her father. The family she had never dreamed of until he'd stepped into Downton the same day of the news that the _Titanic_ had sunk. Something good had come out of the tragedy for her. Every time something bad had happened between them, something good had kept them together. She loves him fiercely, more fiercely than she had ever thought it was possible to love another man.

"We've got everything," he continues. "You have given me things that I hadn't even realised I'd wanted or needed until you gave me the privilege of holding your heart. You are my everything, Anna May Bates."

She smiles at the sound of her full name on his lips, but soon her smile is eclipsed by his mouth on hers. There's something different about this kiss. She can taste it. This can only be going in one direction, and she embraces it with everything she has. He may need a little more time to recover, but he has always been a generous lover, setting her needs far above his own. He is one of a kind. He's kissing his way down her body, and she threads her fingers through his greying hair, her thoughts blending and wandering whimsically.

She'd always known that he was different to most other men, right from the moment that he'd stepped into her life. She'd recognised it as he'd sobbed in his room after he'd thought he'd lost his position, his heart laid bare for her to see, even if he'd been unaware of her presence.

 _There's always a place for a man like you_ , she'd told him that night, her heart held in a vice in her chest. And she's always maintained that opinion. There _has_ always been a place for a man like him, and that place has always been right by her side.

She knows that no matter what they have to face in the future, it will always remain the same.


End file.
